The Beginning is all That's Left
by SilverHeartShine
Summary: After the Opera House was destroyed, the Phantom had nowhere left to go. Wanted by the world, he returns to the one who helped him escape long ago. This time, however, they are forced to share a much smaller space...will that change anything?
1. Prologue

**Alright, so the prologue is going to be slightly boring, as a warning. I know everyone hates those repetitious sentences and events that they already know happened, because they watched the film! But I really felt like I needed to write this, just to help everyone get a handle for the character, including myself. I wrote this entire thing in a single sit-down of about three hours, so its probably not going to be great. Chapter one will be up soon, and I promise it will be more interesting, but I really do stress the fact that despite it's probable boring-ness, you need to read the prologue. Madame Giry's name is not given in the film, so I "borrowed" the name of Antoinette from The Phantom of Manhattan. Aside from that, however, this fic is based entirely off of the 2004 movie. The grey bars indicate a change in time/scene.**

She walked away from the sobbing Carlotta and the hysterical mob around her, her face tilted up towards the darkness of the beams near the ceiling, looking for him, for the white piece of paper she knew would come floating down—and there it was, his seal in red wax holding the envelope closed. Antoinette closed her eyes for a moment, regret, resignation and more than a hint of fear causing her to pause for a moment before picking up the envelope.

A few feet away Carlotta was making an irate departure, followed swiftly by the departing footsteps of a no doubt relieved Monsieur Lefevre. Andre and Firmin gazed around wildly before setting their gazes on Reyer.

"Senora Guidicelli, she will be coming back, won't she?" The conductor turned away with a helpless sound. Antoinette raised her brows.

"You think so, Monsieur?" She asked, intending the question to be rhetorical. She then continued, "I have a message sir, from the opera ghost,"

"Oh God in heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin exclaimed.

She ignored him. "He welcomes you to his opera house—"

"_His_ opera house?" Firmin interrupted.

_Yes, his. And your life will be much easier if you accept that now, _she told him silently. Aloud, she finished her sentence, "and commands that you continue to leave box five empty for his use, and reminds you his salary is due." She couldn't help the small twitch of her lips as she handed the letter over to Andre.

"His salary!" Firmin exclaimed.

She looked at him innocently, "Well Monsieur Lefevre used to give him 20,000 francs a month." She flipped her long dark braid over her shoulder.

"20,000 francs!" Firmin gasped.

Antoinette was beginning to wonder if he could speak a word of his own. She didn't let the thought show, however, just continued to keep her expression innocently interested, "Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte as your patron?"

"Madame, I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight

when the Vicomte was to join us at the gala But obviously we shall now have to cancel as it appears we have lost our star!" Firmin shouted.

"B-but surely there must be an understudy." Andre stammered.

"Understudy? There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" Reyer was shouting as well.

"A full house Andre, we shall have to refund a full house!"

Antoinette had known this moment was coming. Perhaps, had she been asked, she would even have known before the rude interruption of Carlotta's performance. She took a breath.

"Christine Daae could sing it, sir." She felt Christine, standing behind her, turn swiftly.

"What, a chorus girl? Don't be silly." Andre muttered.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "She has been taking lessons from a great teacher."

"Who?" Andre asked.

"I don't know his name, monsieur." Christine said softly.

_Erik…She knew._ She halted the thought, and put her arm on Christine's shoulder.

"Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught."

They agreed, at last, and Christine timidly walked to the front of the stage.

As she sang, the way Antoinette knew she could, she felt her heart swell, both with pride for Christine, and a certain sadness. She glanced at Andre and Firmin, and smiled. There would most certainly be a performance tonight.

* * *

That night, after the performance, she helped Christine into her room.

"You did very well, my dear." She stated, then looked at the young star's desk. She saw the red rose, with the black ribbon tied around it. She wasn't surprised, and she calmly went to pick it up, turned, and gave it to Christine,

"He is pleased with you."

A small, dark knowledge passed between the two women as their eyes connected. They both had one very big thing in common. Beyond their personal knowledge and subtle fear of the true Opera Ghost…they both were obsessed with him, in their own different ways. She walked out the door, but waited just outside the threshold. And after everyone left, she saw the dark figure reach out and lock the door. Her eyes met his. _Don't hurt her,_ she wanted to beg, but she couldn't find the breath to speak, and less than a moment later, he was gone.

* * *

Hours later, she went in search of her daughter. Knowing Meg's troublesome habit of allowing her curiosity to lead her into dangerous situations, she moved towards Christine's room, ignoring the thought that perhaps her own curiosity was guiding her in the moment. She found the open mirror, and hesitated only a heartbeat before she stepped into it. Her steps were sure, this was far from the first time she had walked these dark, damp tunnels. She found Meg quickly, and silently led her out, back into the Ballet Girls dormitories.

Buquet was there, and, as always, flirting with, and groping at, the girls. On his first day at the Opera House, he had grabbed at her. With voice and hands, she had let him know she was not interested. He now respected, and, she suspected, feared her. He kept his flirting with the girls under her eyes mostly harmless, knowing that she wouldn't hesitate to stop him if he got out of hand. Tonight however, as she listened to his words, she shook her head, the uncomfortable warmth of anger settling in her chest, accompanied by fear, as it always was whenever something about _him_ came up.

_Yellow parchment?_ Her thoughts echoed his words, and a bitter laugh rose in her throat, but she squished it down. His skin was pale, only slightly darker than milk, and although she had only touched his hand once, years ago, as a child he'd had skin like any normal person. She turned to the disgusting, stupid man, pulling away Tabitha, the girl he currently had in his grasp. The girl moved away without a word.

"Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise," She sang to him, gazing warningly at the girls, before turning back to Buquet,

"Joseph Buquet hold your tongue!" She slapped him, for a moment letting all of the anger and worry she had been bottling up escape—how _dare _he?— she lifted the noose from his grasp, and quickly threw it over his head,

"Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!" She hissed, tightening it around his neck, and waiting a moment before releasing it. She then walked out of the room without another word.

* * *

Later, after Christine had returned and Antoinette had settled the girl in the Ballet Mistress's personal room—she wouldn't sleep in her own, and Antoinette didn't need her to speak the reason— it was more notes. More drama from Carlotta. And again, Antoinette tried to warn them…they could not beat the Phantom. He was a genius, and he had no grip on reality. There were no morals or societal restrictions to keep him from getting what he wanted, she knew. She cursed the fact that she hadn't pulled Christine away the first time she had heard her speaking to the Phantom. She cursed herself for not stopping the disaster before it had happened. She cursed the day she had hidden a poor, beaten boy from the mob chasing after a murderer. Yet at the same time, a small part of her, that she very quickly crushed, blessed it.

* * *

Joseph Buquet was dead. Antoinette wasn't sorry, but she was very, very afraid. Not even Christine had spotted him, standing high on a bridge across the top of the stage. Only she had caught his eyes, and seen the cold, emotionless expression on his face, before he whirled into darkness, and she ran to the hysterical girls, trying to calm them, even as her own heart threatened to fall out of her chest. She prayed he did not see Christine and Raoul run up to the roof. But deep down, she knew he saw everything.

* * *

At the masquerade ball, she stared at the faces around her. All of them smiling, carefree. She had a similar expression on her face, it was not hard to do. Almost all her life here, she had been pretending ignorance. It was easier for her now to pretend she knew only as much as everyone else, and cared even less, than it was for her to show her true knowledge…and emotions. In truth, she had her own emotions so hidden, she wasn't quite sure what they were anymore.

Still, she felt very little shock when he appeared, his normal black replaced with scarlet. Her heart ached as he sang quietly, his eyes boring into Christine's. She found herself wishing that somehow they could have a happy ending, though she knew they would not. That disaster beyond imagining was just around the corner. And so she was the first to act when both the Phantom and Raoul disappeared beneath the floor. She raced down the hidden passage to the empty space below. She heard Raoul slashing with his sword, she saw him in the small pool of light the bars of the trapdoor allowed, reflecting off the mirrors. At first she was as confused as Raoul, seeing the multiple reflections. Then she felt her arm brush cloth.

She froze, then tilted her head sideways, and caught a glimpse of scarlet cloth, and a white mask with dark cloth around the eyes. Blue eyes, that caught hers, like they always did, sharp and piercing, and containing a strange sort of emotion that rose in them whenever they saw her. She suspected it was an expression that was mirrored in her own face. Although it seemed half a lifetime before anything happened, in reality it was a mere moment before the Phantom dropped the rope he held in his hand—she hadn't even realized he was holding it, she thought with dismay—and ran down into a small tunnel, vanishing into the shadows.

Raoul was still frantically slashing at the darkness, at the rope near his head. She slipped behind him and grabbed his shoulder, leading him out, away from the hysteria on stage. They rose from another trap door that led into the dormitories. She began to walk away, but he chased after her

"Madame Giry"— She sped up, her heart racing as she attempted to get away from him before he could ask any questions. "Please, I know no more than anyone else," She spoke without turning her head, the lie she had so often repeated tasting bitter on her tongue for the first time in years.

"That's not true!" He ran to catch up with her.

She huffed out a breath, "Monsieur, don't ask." It took all of her self control not to beg. "There have been too many accidents."

"Accidents?" She heard the outrage in his voice, "Please, Madame Giry…for all our sakes."

She looked at his face, and saw the honesty and goodwill there. He was just another man, she had been telling herself that, sure that he would eventually come to the same end as all the others who had upset _him_. It hit her suddenly, that she was beginning to fall under a sort of spell of his, not at all like Christine's, but…did she really care about those he had killed? How many times had she known, one way or the other, but done _nothing_, so certain of the eventual outcome? Christine loved the boy in front of her. Was she really, once more, going to stand by silent? That made her as harsh and unrelenting as the Phantom that even now probably watched them.

"Very well." And so she brought him in, and told him the tale, and held back her tears as he walked out the door, leaving her to her thoughts, and to the despairing feeling that somehow, she had betrayed an enormous confidence.

* * *

The play he had given them premiered tonight, and Antoinette watched with her heart in her throat as the two people sang on stage, half hiding behind the curtain. She saw his eyes follow Christine's as they rose up to Raoul, with the police man behind him. She tried to make herself forget about the note she had written, detailing Raoul's plan. The note she had left on her desk in her room, sealed with red wax, a red rose with a black ribbon beside it. She tried to forget the relief she had felt when she had returned to her room, and neither envelope nor rose remained. Her eyes were riveted to the two figures on stage. She heard him singing quietly of love, and she watched as Christine caressed his face…then ripped off his mask. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see what would happen next, but then she opened them, forcing herself to face the fact that whatever happened, she now had a responsibility. She had taken action this time, and she had to go through with it. Not even she was prepared, however, when both Phantom and Christine vanished from the stage. She raced through the curtains, past where Carlotta bent over Piangi's stiffening body. She didn't stop running when she heard footsteps racing behind her, nor when she heard Raoul ask where they had gone.

"Come with me, I will take you to him," She gasped out, hearing the fear raw in her voice, "But remember, keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"

Would that save him? She was not sure. She made Meg halt, told her to wait. She met her daughter's eyes—She needed time, Raoul needed time, but she didn't have the time to even say the words aloud. But Meg knew, she realized as her daughter turned away, arms outspread, braced against the mob moving towards them. She couldn't wait to see what happened. Antoinette led Raoul down the stairwell, until the fear consumed her so that she could no longer force her legs to move.

"Keep your hand at the level of your eyes…this is as far as I dare go." She told him. She watched him descend, until he left her line of vision. Then she walked back up the stairs. She heard the group above her, searching for a way through the labyrinth of tunnels. She stayed away from them, taking the passage she had memorized years before, into the Ballet Girls dormitories.

* * *

Two months later, Antoinette received a letter in the mail inviting her to the marriage of a certain Vicomte and former Opera star. She resisted the urge to hide the letter as she entered the small house she had bought for herself and her daughter after the decimation of the opera house. He was gone…for good, no doubt. The fact that the hairs on the back of her neck still occasionally rose, or the thought that, once or twice, she had seen the disappearing tail of a black cape meant nothing. Mere hallucinations, left over from years of living near Him. She set the letter on the small wooden desk in her room, next the white leather mask that her daughter had given her, when she had emerged from the tunnels. It was from Meg that she learned the story of what had happened down in the Phantom's lair. She shivered.

"Mother?"

Meg stood in her doorway, her expression cautiously curious. Antoinette felt a surge of love for her daughter. The only wonderful thing that had come out of her short marriage. She had never questioned her too closely about her relationship with the Phantom, although by now everything had come into the light. But Meg had always been aware of the strange connection between her mother and the Opera Ghost, though she hadn't known specifically what it was. The night Meg had handed her the mask, she hadn't asked questions. She had answered her mother's unspoken ones, and left her alone when Antoinette shut herself in her room…

"M-mother…" Antoinette jerked herself from her thoughts at the sound of her daughter's shaking voice. She suddenly realized that her daughter's face was flooded with…fear, or shock. No, both.

"What is it?" Her voice came out sharp, and Meg flinched, then held out her hand.

"I…I went to put some of the old things in the attic. It was stuffy, so I opened up the window. There was nothing there…nothing! But when I was finished, and I went to close it before I left…on the window sill…"

In Meg's outstretched hand was a withered rose, wrapped in a black ribbon, that had a small piece of folded paper, burned on the edges, sealed with red wax. With shaking hands, Antoinette broke the seal. One word was written on the paper.

_**Tonight.**_


	2. Chapter 1

**Well, here is chapter one, such as it is. I will make an effort to stay as close to the character as I can, but golly gee, he is a complicated boy to put on paper! So I probably won't be writing a Perfect Phantom. Still, I think the story will be enjoyable, and I hope people are reading it. Considering this is the first "real" chapter, I am going to ask for reviews! At least pop me a line that says, "I'm reading it". You don't have to be fancy, just click the button and type something! **

* * *

Antoinette sat on her bed, holding the rose, and the note. She kept reading it for some reason, as if she thought she could get some sort of hidden meaning from the single word. The only thought that sat in her mind long enough for her to dwell on it was "_Why?"_

_Why did he do this? What does he want?_

A thousand horror stories had flown through her mind. Did he want to kill her? If he felt she had betrayed him, she knew his twisted mind would justify the act. Still…the note wasn't his style, if her death was indeed what he was after. Was he going to force her to give up Raoul and Christine's location, so he could terrorize them once more?

_No._ She gave a bitter laugh. He would already know. Probably knew before she did.

Meg had made it sound as if he truly had vanished, made some sort of decision to withdraw from the world. Clearly, that was not the case. She looked again at the paper.

_**Tonight**_

_

* * *

_

Four hours later, the sun had set, and Antoinette was growing tense and nervous as she stared out the parlor window, into the night. The house was silent. Directly after being handed the letter, she had sent her daughter down to the inn where another Ballet girl was staying, after making her promise not to say a word. Meg hadn't wanted to go, and, if she were truthful with herself, Antoinette hadn't wanted her to go either. To be alone, with such a man…

No, he was not, in the flesh, the monster his reputation had turned him into. He was a mortal man…physically. His mind was not that of any other she had ever known, however. Both in intellect and reason. It was as odd—as powerful—as his voice, but much more dangerous.

"Madame Giry." She gasped, rising from her chair abruptly, putting enough force into the action for the piece of furniture to tilt off balance. She grabbed it before it crashed to the floor, searching for a figure hidden in the shadows. She had lit many, many_, many_ candles. But they could not shine into the darkest nooks and crannies, and if there was a spot of shadow, he could find it, and hide in it. He had shaped his life with his abilities as a magician, making the Opera House magnificent with his creations. Even in her small house, he could use illusion to confuse her. For that reason, she ceased straining her eyes, and instead lowered her gaze to the candle on the table beside her.

"You received my letter." It was a statement, not a question, and so she did not bother to answer.

"I find myself in a strange position. My…home…is no longer accessible. And I won't be welcome anywhere else. There is no place I would call my home, now, even presented with the prospect."

She heard the faint note of agony in the last sentence, and her breath caught. But he didn't succumb to the emotion, and his next sentence came out in the same smooth, deep, polished tone he had started with.

"At first…the catacombs, their darkness, seemed a tolerable place for me. However, I find that I hold a distaste for the constant filthiness. Therefore, I took the only option that seemed plausible."

He paused, and Antoinette imagined a small wrinkle forming between his brows, as he thought out his next words. The pause lingered, and she felt her own face shift into a frown. What on earth could put him at such a loss for words? She almost wondered if he had left. She listened for his breathing, but heard nothing. Taking the candle in her hand, she stepped forward, pushing the flame into the shadows around her. She turned around, looking behind her, but nothing was there but the shut window. And his voice had come from inside the house. She turned around, and cried out.

He was barely two feet away, his face covered by the gruesome mask he had worn at the Masquerade. He didn't move, only stared at her, his blue eyes vivid behind the black cloth that surrounded them.

Antoinette inhaled, and, unable to stand the silent scrutiny, asked breathlessly, "And what option…was that?" Why was he here? And why, just now, when she should be terrified, was she hit with a brief, almost overwhelming feeling of…was it relief? Something similar, but not exactly. It was gone in an instant, leaving her no time to analyze.

"I must stay with you." He said it simply, the certainty in his tone belying the effort that speaking the words had clearly taken.

She stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. Then she frowned as she struggled to regain her composure. Her own personal mask, as it were. The mask of the authoritive, stern, solemn ballet mistress. It was a façade that had kept her safe in the Opera House. Nothing could penetrate it, except the raw feeling she always felt whenever he was near. So, it was with great difficulty that she forced her face and voice into the cool, unbothered expression.

"That is…" _Ridiculous_, she wanted to say. But the partially-hidden fire in his gaze warned to her watch her words. "…going to be difficult to arrange." She finished instead. "This is a small house, Meg and I take up the only two rooms available."

A laugh escaped him, harsh and scraping on her ears. She flinched.

"The attic will suffice. I went over it earlier. The boxes Meg moved in earlier made it a bit crowded, but it will still work. I have taken the liberty of arranging things to my liking."

It irked her that she could not see his expression behind the mask. Now, his eyes told her close to nothing, and his voice even less. She was not overly-bothered by the fact that he knew what they had done that day. Now that she knew he had taken an interest in her—or more appropriately, her home—it came with the territory—Phantom—that he also knew their every move. Still, a chill ran down her back. The familiar one that had been with her close to every moment at the Opera House.

She tried to take back the conversation. Take back her own house, for the sake of God.

"The…attic…I suppose I have very little choice in the matter. If it were only myself in this house, I would not find a problem with it. But Meg…she is very curious. And you are not tolerant of curiosity where your privacy is concerned." She made herself hold his gaze. This time, he glanced away, the corners of his mouth drooping down. After a silence of five seconds—five seconds of Antoinette holding her breath and fighting the shivers in her body—he looked back.

"I will not harm your daughter…in any circumstance. Though please do advise her to tread with caution when entering my attic."

His_ attic? It was _his_ already?_

"And give your word that you will not…take an interest in her." She knew it was stupid, even as she said it, but she could not help herself. For a heartbeat he remained absolutely still, then his fists clinched, and he clenched his teeth together. When he spoke, it was in a growl filled with anger, pain, and trembling restraint.

"An _interest_, Madame? What sort of interest are you suggesting I take? If you think that for a moment your plain, empty daughter could raise in me an interest of the romantic or carnal nature…" His voice trailed off, and he inhaled shakily. "The one person who was ever able to do that is gone. She will never come back, and so you need not fear, Madame Giry. I am eternally empty of such things now."

As empty as his voice. The music that had always run through his words was gone. Instead it was cold. As close to average as she suspected it could get. She cleared her throat, which had tightened, cutting off her air supply as he had spoken.

"Well, then I have no ob"—She broke off with a hiss as she felt something burning land on her hand. Reflexively, she jerked it back, then watched in dismay as more molten wax began to drip towards her hand. Before it reached skin, however, another hand, covered in a black glove, reached over her own, and removed the candle from her grasp.

He blew it out, and change in light momentarily blinded her. When her vision cleared, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 2

**Wow, first I would like to say THANK YOU to all my reviewers. Really, it means so much to me. So much, in fact, that I have enough inspiration to write this chapter and post it today, instead of next week like I had planned! A kind review means so much to me as an author, and confidence as a person =D Who knew a day on could be so self-improving? =P. On a more(or less, depending) serious note…Madame Giry's husband probably had a proper name in some story, some where, but I'm not going to bother to look it up, so if someone, in their infinite Phantom Wisdom, knows his name…sorry for having it wrong, but it's staying the way it is. Now my note is turning into something close to a letter "Get on with the story already" I know, I know…all I can say is, this chapter was a LOT of fun to write, largely due to Meg's cute-ness. Well, please leave a little review after reading. And thank you again**

* * *

She heard nothing for the rest of the night, and she didn't have the courage to go look in the attic to see if he had already…settled in. The strangeness of the situation finally slipped past the wall of fear, and she gave a laugh, shaking her head.

_The phantom of the opera is there, inside my attic…_

Well, considering the events in her life thus far…she supposed it fit. Her life was intertwined with the strange, ghostly man, whether she wanted it or not.

_Indeed, and which of the two is it?_

She shook her head again. It didn't matter. It didn't. Then a question that really _did_ matter popped into her mind—

"What on _earth_ am I going to tell Meg?"

* * *

The next morning, Antoinette was roughly woken from her sleep when her bedroom door burst open, hitting the wall with a thud forceful enough shake the mirror on her wall. She sat up, silently but quickly, blinking her eyes as she focused on the figure in the doorway.

"Mother! Are you all right? Did he come? What happened? You aren't hurt, are you?" Meg was breathless and pale. She raced towards her mother as she spoke, then sat on the bed, taking her hands.

"He has left you alone now, hasn't he? He got whatever he wanted?"

Antoinette pulled one of her hands free and laid it on her daughter's mouth.

"Be silent for a moment!" Her firm command stopped the tirade of questions. The blonde girl stared at her with wide eyes, bright with both fear and curiosity. Mostly curiosity, her mother decided ruefully.

"It should be obvious to you that I am unharmed, Meg. He did come, and we…discussed things…" She trailed off. Meg stared at her expectantly for a moment, before shifting slightly forward.

"Yes? You discussed…?"

"_Hush."_ Was there a…sane…way to inform her daughter that the Opera Ghost had taken residence in their attic? Somehow, she didn't think so.

"He did get what he wanted," She muttered, irony running through the words. She saw Meg open her mouth to ask another question, but she spoke over her, forcing herself to state the words calmly and levelly.

"He's staying in our attic. For a while."

Meg's mouth closed with an audible snap. For once in her life, her cheerful, talkative daughter seemed to be at a loss for words. As she waited for her to recover, Antoinette rose from the bed. She had gone to sleep fully dressed, only loosening her corset before she crawled beneath the covers. Somehow, the thought of being only in her dressing gown when _he _was there—and had the potential to start any sort of fiasco—made her feel too vulnerable. So it was with minimal effort that she prepared herself for the day. Her gown was wrinkled, but it was unlikely anyone who cared would see it.

Still, it was a mark of the way a part of her had fallen, along with the Opera House. Once so reserved and unbending with both her appearance and emotions…and now look at her, only taking a moment to rinse her face before she walked into the kitchen.

_And letting a fiend into your house. The house that contains your only child._

_I didn't have a choice!_ She silently argued as she entered the kitchen. Said daughter was on her heels, and Antoinette prepared for another bout of questions.

"Why?"

She stopped, then turned to face Meg.

"Because he asked."

"_Asked?"_

She heard the doubt in Meg's tone, and felt the corners of her mouth lose their stiffness and turn up slightly.

"Yes. Though I suppose I should make it clear that he _asked_ in the only way he knows how." Her tone was disgruntled.

"Ah…what are you going to do?" Meg's was simply filled with curiosity.

_Does the girl have a lick of common sense? Even her father had a stronger sense of caution, the silly man._

Immediately after the thought she berated herself. Leonard had been a kind man, only very, very shallow. Meg wasn't shallow, merely very energetic, and very inquisitive.

She sighed, "I don't know, Meg. Let him stay in the attic, and hopefully never see or hear from him, I suppose…"

"Well he'll need to eat. And use the convenience. And he'll need candles, and such things," Meg's tone was thoughtful.

Of all the things she could have said—it was _this_? That the Phantom of the Opera would need to use _the convenience_? Antoinette snorted, then laughed, long and hard. And if there was a note of hysteria in her laughter, she figured she was entitled.

Meg looked slightly alarmed to see her mother showing such emotion, which only made her laugh harder. Finally she made herself stop, and took several deep breaths.

"He probably has his own way to acquire food, dear. He was never provided with such…before." She wasn't going to reply to her other statement. It was indecent.

"But he got money. At least, he did when Monsieur Lefevre owned…it."

Both of them realized that they were hesitant to say the words Opera House aloud. Neither of them wanted to, when there was a chance he was listening. Nothing to remind him of what he had lost.

"He is a grown man, Meg. He'll figure something out." And with that Antoinette walked to the front door, put on her bonnet, and strode out the door, calling behind her, "I am going to post a letter."

* * *

Her thoughts were so clouded that Antoinette was already inside the post office before she realized what a bad idea it had been to leave Meg in the house. Alone, or more importantly, potentially _not _alone.

She raced back to the house, stopping as she opened the door, and listening. She heard no one shouting or screaming.

"_Meg?"_ She called, trying to keep her voice calm as she moved forward, opening the door to her daughter's room.

She wasn't there.

Antoinette raced to the ladder that led into the attic.

"Meg!" She called urgently.

"Mother?" Her daughter's head peeked over the opening at the top of the ladder.

"Come down here at once!" She hissed furiously.

"But he isn't here. I just wanted to bring him some tea and biscuits."

"_Tea and_"— She broke off incredulously. "Meg Giry, come down here now, or you will not be receiving _your_ tea and biscuits, nor will you leave your room, for a week!"

Her daughter—who must have absolutely nothing in her head but feathers, Antoinette decided—climbed down the ladder.

"I'll leave them up there for him, I suppose," She mumbled as she descended.

"And don't you dare try to fetch them back, young lady. I swear, if you go up there again—ever, for any reason—you will never leave this house, for the rest of your life."

"That would be impossible, seeing as it's very likely I'll live longer than you," Meg muttered rebelliously.

"Not if you continue to do such—stupid things!" Antoinette raised her voice, just a hair, before breaking into a quieter tone as she finished her sentence.

Finally, Meg began to look slightly remorseful.

"I really didn't intend to scare you so, mother." She said quietly

Antoinette sighed. She knew, but all the good intentions in the world couldn't protect one from danger, and that was a lesson she knew more about than anyone in the world.

"He wasn't there?" She questioned.

"No. But there were a couple blankets that weren't ours."

"Well then…" she made herself smile, "I have just posted a letter to Christine, her wedding is next month, and we will be attending."

Meg smiled back, "That's lovely! Where"—

She broke off as Antoinette shook her head, "Don't say anything more about it, at least not in this house."

Meg knew why she was giving the order, and she nodded, but a morose frown marred her expression.

"It's rather like being back _there_, again, isn't it?"

Antoinette raised her eyebrows as she looked at her daughter for a long moment.

"Yes, it is. Remember that, Meg Giry. If you can learn one thing from this continuing debacle…so long as the Phantom lives, I do not believe any of us will ever truly be free of the Opera House, nor any of its occupants."

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**Until chapter 3, adieu**


	4. Chapter 3

**No Erik in this one either! And after such a long period between updates…I'm very sorry, I was just experiencing horrible writers block for a very long time…when I first started this chapter, it was like scraping sand out of a cut…oww! It's also a wee bit short. I am terribly sorry….and about Erik….to be honest, I'm still a little frightened to write him…really it seems a little impossible from my perspective, but I promise, my next chapter will include the dear masked man! Anyway, I'm planning on this story to be more than just 4 or 5 chapters, so these first few are more of a build-up than pieces that are waist-deep in the plot-line. And please, reviews serve as one of my biggest inspirations, so the more you review, the more I write! **

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Antoinette took her daughter out of the house, shopping for some lace to add to one of her dresses to make it wedding-appropriate. Antoinette herself had decided she would just wear her usual black dress, perhaps with the gold sash she had purchased only a month before the Opera House fell. It would add just an edge of high-society fashion, though no doubt she would be the only woman to wear black to a wedding, but she hadn't the money to buy new trimmings for both Meg and herself.

"Oh, look at this!" Meg ran forward, to a shop with a small wooden sign hanging over the door that read, "Madame Babin's cloth and dress shop". The simple wooden sign looked as if it belonged to someone practical enough to have reasonable prices. The baby blue lace that had caught Meg's eye sat curled on a cushion in front of the shop window.

"Come," Antoinette ordered, as she sailed through the door, looking about for "Madame Babin". The first person she saw, however, was a small boy no more than 9 years old sitting on top of a desk, with his feet resting on a beaten wooden chair.

"Pardon, but is the Madame in?" She questioned.

He nodded, "Yes, Madame. I'll get her for you." He jumped off the desk and trotted into a door in the back of the shop, disappearing behind the curtain. The sounds of a low conversation went on for about a minute, then a middle-aged plump but fashionable woman appeared. Her hair was an off-blonde color that Antoinette was certain was artificial. But her gray eyes were cheerful as she spoke.

"Madame, Mademoiselle, I am Madame Babin. You are in need of my service?"

"My daughter needs some material to renew one of her older gowns," Antoinette reached into the large, sack-like bag she was carrying and brought out the wrinkled, somewhat sad looking dress. It really was rather plain, and Antoinette wished she had the money to buy something better. Still, they would make it work.

Madame Babin gave a small exclamation, then moved forward, "Oh, you poor thing."

Antoinette blinked as the woman took the dress from her hands.

"Jean-Paul!" She called. The boy came out of the back room, and Madame Babin held the dress out to him.

"Go put this on the rack for me."

He took the dress and walked over to a wide board standing up in the corner of the room. He gently pinned the dress to it, so that it lay in a position similar to what it looked like when worn.

Madame Babin glanced at it, then turned back, moving towards Meg, who was still examining the blue lace.

"No, no, no, I do not think that is a good color. The gown is blue, yes, but still, the shades…they will clash, certainly." She moved the lace away. "Come, we will look at something else."

She led Meg to another table, holding several different items. Antoinette let them go, while she herself browsed the shop. A particular fabric had caught her eye, a dark red color that she would have called maroon, only it was just a little too red. It had no real design, but the color was slightly brindled with a lighter red. Overall the fabric almost reminded her of leaves in the autumn, shades of reds blending into each other on a tree. She touched the fabric gently. It was velvet, and breathtakingly soft.

Suddenly she laughed, and pulled her hand away. Breathtakingly _expensive_ more likely, and she certainly didn't need it. Unfortunately, Meg had caught her admiring the cloth, and walked over to her.

"Oh mother, that's lovely, the color is beautiful!"

"Yes, Meg. But—"

"What is it that has attracted you so much, Mad—Oh, yes indeed! With your complexion and hair, you would look exquisite!"

Lovely, Madame Babin had come over as well.

"_No."_ Antoinette stated in a tone that brooked no argument. "Meg, did you find something?"

"Yes," Her daughter held out both of her hands. There was a lovely deep blue lace in one, and satin ribbon of the same color in the other. "Madame Babin says these will be the best…but they are a bit costly. More than you were planning to spend, I know—"

"Oh, but the color is perfect for the dress, and the shade would highlight her figure perfectly," Madame Babin interrupted.

_Of course, it is the most expensive that is so perfect._

Antoinette raised an eyebrow, "Indeed? How much?"

Madame Babin named a price that made Antoinette's breath catch for a moment. But only a moment. For all of her merchants persuasive statements, she really was right. The color would look marvelous on Meg, and the dress.

"Very well."

Madame Babin, and her daughter, both smiled, though the formers was a smile that hinted at greed, whereas the latter's was merely happiness.

"Wonderful! Jean-Paul, wrap the Mademoiselle's things _carefully!_"

The boy took the lace and ribbon from Meg, and began to fold it up inside sheets of brown paper.

"Now Madame, are you certain you do not wish to purchase any of this fabric? Why, just imagine, a skirt made of the velvet, with a silk bodice in the deepest color, here, fashioned in the newest style, with the low neckline, and the little sleeves that—"

"I said _no,_ Madame Babin, and I meant it." Antoinette drummed her fingers on the table.

Madame Babin seemed to realize it was a hopeless cause, for she sighed and turned away.

"That is fine, Jean-Paul. Madame?"

With a sigh Antoinette reached into her purse. She handed the money to Madame Babin. Meg took the packages, and her dress, from the boy, and Antoinette walked out of the store, refusing to give the velvet—or Madame Babin—another glance.

"Mother?" Meg had to jog to catch up with her. "Mother, why were you so cold to the Madame? She really was very nice."

Antoinette glanced at her daughter with a frown, but then shook her head. Meg was right the Madame had been pushy, true, but considering her helpfulness, she had not needed to be treated so rudely.

"She was Meg. I'm feeling rather irritated today." She shrugged.

Meg raised a brow, looking startlingly like Antoinette herself for a moment.

"You do have your reasons, mother" A moment later she was smiling happily, and she gave her mother an impulsive hug.

"Thank you so much! I know it was costly, but we can get by on a little less for just a while, I'm sure!"

"Mmm." Antoinette hummed, not really listening at the moment. Her mind was on a brindled red fabric, softer than a kitten's fur.

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**Please…click the button, type a few words!**


	5. Chapter 4

**A short chapter, almost a continuation of the previous one, but when I put them together, I thought it was too long, so there you are…Please, review! I have ideas galore for the next chapter…but somehow the ideas never get the initiative to come out of my fingers onto a keyboard(and therefore a computer screen, which then leads to being posted here) without knowing that others are reading them!**

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Meg was a lovely seamstress—though she absolutely loathed the work. Still, she was more than capable of applying the lace to her dress, and upon returning home, she immediately set about the task.

Antoinette was in the kitchen, preparing their dinner. And listening for noises in the attic. She heard nothing…but then, that didn't really mean anything, did it? She was also having something of a dilemma about dinner itself, as a matter of fact. Should she prepare something for her…guest?

_Better safe than sorry, with him…_

She put an extra helping of chicken on the stove. Chicken and rice for dinner. She'd bought the chicken on the way home. She'd had to pluck it herself—Though thank the heavens the stall-keeper she had purchased it from had actually killed the thing. She wasn't squeamish, but after everything at the Opera House…she tried to avoid death of any kind—and feathers were stuck onto her gown and in her hair. She began plucking them off as the food cooked, blowing them out the window.

She was in the process of extricating a particularly stubborn piece of down from her hair when she heard Meg shriek. A wave of cold fear washed through her chest, and she ran towards Meg's room, her heart in her throat. She stopped abruptly in the hallway, staring for a moment.

Meg, holding the blue dress tightly to her chest, was staring at the Phantom, who had apparently just come out of Antoinette's room, right as Meg was coming out of hers. Now they both were frozen, the Phantom from surprise, Meg from alarm.

Antoinette cleared her throat, and the Phantom turned his head to her, though Meg kept staring at him. Antoinette cleared her throat again, more loudly, and finally her daughter turned to her.

"What is going on here?" She asked, using her Ballet Mistress tone. As always, it made her feel less nervous than she was.

"I was retrieving my property." The Phantom said coolly, gesturing to the white half-mask on his face.

Antoinette sighed, letting some of the tension drain from her body.

_What on earth should I say?_

_I wonder what he's going to do now…_

_Nothing, probably._

_Or something devastating_

_I suppose that's somewhat likely_

_Really, you should say something. They're both staring at you._

The smell of cooking chicken hit her nose. It was probably going to burn in a minute.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?"

Both of them stared at her like she was mad.

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Needless to say, everything was very awkward at first. Nobody said anything, and everybody frowned at their plates.

After several agonizing minutes where the only sounds were forks scraping against plates, Meg spoke up, "I finished the dress, mother. It looks wonderful, you can hardly tell it's the same."

Antoinette forced a smile, "That's good." Her throat felt terribly tight.

Now that she had started, Meg seemed to have no such problem.

"It will be perfect to wear at"— She choked to a halt, suddenly realizing what she was about to say, then finished with, "Any dances in town, any parties. It's as pretty as any of the dresses other women have."

Antoinette tried to force herself to breathe. Meg's blunder had rendered her immobile, and she was struggling to keep up this bizarre, half-normal appearance of any regular dinner.

Meg, both sensing her mother's problem, and made slightly loose-tongued from her own nervousness, continued to babble.

"I do wish we had had the money to buy that brindley velvet for you, mother. Madame Babin was right, the red would have looked absolutely stunning on you."

That comment made Antoinette smile.

"I am long past the age to be considered stunning, Meg. I'll leave that for you." No matter how much her heart thought otherwise. Nobody ever really _needed _pretty clothes, anything.

"You look extremely lovely for a woman of your age!" Meg said firmly.

Antoinette's smile grew. How complimentary her daughter was.

After that, there was another long pause. Antoinette glanced at the Phantom, who, she found, was watching her. She jumped slightly when their eyes connected, and turned back to her plate.

"Do you like chicken?" Meg was looking at the Phantom expectantly.

He turned and looked at her, his face as expressionless as Antoinette had ever seen it. That didn't seem to cow Meg however.

"I like it, I find it easier to eat than some other meats. If you don't cook it right, things like beef and pork can become terribly tough. Plus, they are so much more expensive. Really, they're hardly worth the hassle."

Antoinette watched in amazement as the corner of the Phantom's mouth jerked, just very slightly. It was hardly noticeable but…was he _amused_?

"Meg," She said quietly, a very subtle warning in her voice.

Meg glanced at her and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a deep, quiet voice spoke.

"I find I'm not much for anything, at the moment. But chicken works as well as anything."

Antoinette was absolutely speechless.

Meg wasn't.

"Yes, really it does, and because it's so easy to cook, it's something even I can prepare. I'm a terrible cook, you know. But mother's actually quite good at it. She can take almost anything and turn it into a dinner that's easy to eat."

"She could always do that," The comment seemed oddly impulsive, and immediately after he said it, he stood up and turned away.

"Thank you for the dinner." He spoke with his back to them, as if he wished to hide his face.

With that comment, he walked away, into the shadows of the hallway, and then up to the attic. The attic door closed with a slam that shook the plates on the table.

Antoinette was left feeling breathless and stunned. His comment had brought up memories of carrying picnic baskets down beneath the Opera House as a young girl. Memories of speaking with the odd, troubled, emotional young boy named Erik.

Memories she thought the Phantom had forgotten.

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**Agggghhh. Creating a dialogue for semi-psychotic, emotional, broken-hearted ex-murderer and Opera Ghost is EXTREMELY HARD. Sorry if it sucked, I can honestly say I tried!**

**Even if it sucked…Review, please?**


	6. Chapter 5

**Sorry for taking so long to update, I've been working on another story of mine, but now I'm back with this one as well. This chapter is mostly flashback, let me know what you think! **

_**Italics= Flashback**_

**Normal= Present.**

As Antoinette prepared for bed the memories lingered, seeming to float through the air in such a way that when she turned to light a candle or to pull a sheet, she ran into them, blowing them back to such vivid color that she had to close her eyes and pause until they faded again.

_The ballet girls' dormitory wasn't very private, but it was at least fairly spacious. Only the Ballet Mistress got a room to herself. Antoinette was envious, her privacy came second to her desire to succeed in the dance, but it was a close second, though she'd never admit it. Perhaps she would be the Ballet Mistress some day, be in charge of her own girls, teach them to be stars like her Madame was teaching. _

_Of course, if the other girls or Madame found out she'd helped a murderer escape _and_ was secretly harboring him in the opera house, no doubt her career would be demolished before it could even begin. That hadn't stopped her from doing it, though. He was a boy, perhaps three years younger than her, and Antoinette's current line of thinking was that he must be hungry. _

_She'd given him a couple extra blankets the night before, once she'd begged off from her friends with the excuse of not feeling well. Then she'd gone back to her own room—because she honestly _wasn't_ feeling well at all—and lay in her bed, hoping sleep free of nightmares would come._

_It was between midday practice and the evening performance when Antoinette had finally found the time to slip away. She'd gone to the kitchen while the cook was out on errands. She'd only been brave enough to take a little stale bread and toast it for a few moments near the oven. While it was toasting she wrapped a slab of butter in a clean cloth and stuck it down her bodice. Uncomfortable, but effective. She remembered doing the same thing with cookies she'd "borrowed" from the baker when she was very young._

She wrapped the bread in one of her extra drawers. It would be embarrassing if anyone caught her, but she didn't think people would question her taking her drawers to "the laundry" if they did.

And "they" did. If Antoinette had been asked who she liked the least in the Opera House, Joseph Buquet would have been at the top of her list.

"What ya got there, Annie?" His sneering voice came from behind her right as she was walking down the dormitory hall.

"My name is Antoinette, sir, and you should remember that. It isn't such a hard name, even for those of lower intellect." She spoke as she turned to face him.

He scowled at her, "You shouldn't put on airs, you're just a run-of-the-mill talented ballet baby_, like all the others." He was at the age where his voice would pop from high to low and back again, but unfortunately he wasn't self conscious enough for that to keep him quiet._

Antoinette stared at him, feeling the burn of anger from her toes to her fingertips to the tip of her nose. "Well at least I have the talent to go_ on stage, unlike some people!" She snapped at him. He lunged at her, and Antoinette shrieked and ran down the hallway, hearing his laughter follow her as she went._

She hid around the corner and waited until he went away, then continued her trek. In her first week at the Opera House she'd found the passage into the catacombs below, and she'd kept it her secret, sometimes slipping down there to get away from various things—Buquet, Madame, or anyone who she might have irritated, accidentally or otherwise. 

_The entrance to the passage was hidden under a run in the storage room connect to the costume and dressing area, and it was empty when Antoinette walked in, holding the bread securely in her arms. She walked down a short passage way, down a steep flight of stairs, and wound carefully through the catacombs until she arrived at the place she'd left the boy the night before. The blankets were there, but he wasn't. Antoinette paused, debating whether to look for him or just leave the bread. _

_She was setting the bread and butter down on the blankets when she heard a scraping noise behind her. She turned, alarmed, and jumped slightly when she met the gaze of two frightened, angry blue eyes peering through a dirty sack._

The two young people stared at each other a moment, both of them unsure what to say. Finally Antoinette took a breath, "Hello. I thought you'd be hungry, so…" She stepped to the side and waved her hand at the bread sitting on the blankets, then blushed when she realized she was still holding her drawers. She hid them behind her back and stepped a little farther away from the strange boy.

He didn't talk, he just watched her a moment longer before leaping at the bread on the blankets and shoving it into his mouth. 

_Antoinette watched, horrified, for a moment before murmuring, "It's better if you put some butter on it. It's a little stale, but I toasted it, and if you put some butter on it…" She drifted off, he wasn't listening to her._

Although when he'd first started eating he'd simply put the food to his mouth under the sack, he ate so roughly that it finally slipped off his face, revealing the marks that had made him "The Devil's Child." He was so caught up in eating he didn't notice at first, and Antoinette stared in fascinated horror and compassion.

When he'd eaten all the bread, he glanced at her, and he turned so completely stiff he seemed to be a statue. His face went pale and his mouth opened just a bit. His crumb-covered hands flew to cover his face as he gave a small cry, turning to look for his hood.

The cry cut into Antoinette's heart. "It's behind you," She pointed with one hand—the other still holding her drawers behind her back—at the brown-grey material.

The boy grabbed it and pulled it over his face. He wouldn't look at her anymore. It seemed as if he wanted to run away, yet at the same time was frozen, his knees resting on the blankets.

"I won't hurt you." Antoinette told him. She walked a little bit closer, frightened, but also suddenly very sad. "I didn't' tell anyone what happened. You're safe." She knelt so that her knees also rest on the blankets, and she made herself smile.

"I'm Antoinette…what's your name?"

He stared at her for what must have been an entire minute—a very long time to be stared at by someone—and as the seconds ticked by his posture became less wild until he finally inhaled shakily, and muttered.

_"I haven't got one."_

Antoinette frowned, "But you must. Everybody's got a name."

_He shook his head, "Who wants to name a demon like me?"_

_Antoinette's expression darkened, "You aren't a demon. And you've got a name. You just don't know what it is yet. So pick one."_

_He stared at her, silent once more. Antoinette sighed, "Well, if you won't pick one for yourself, I'll pick one for you…how about…Samuel?"_

He shook his head.

"Richard?"

_He shook his head, more emphatically this time._

"Very well, not Richard then…when I was younger, I had a pet cat named Erin—no, never mind, that sounds too feminine." She paused, thinking.

"Erik." The quiet voice—he really did have a sweet sounding voice, Antoinette noticed—said calmly.  


"_Erik?" She tilted her head. "That's as good a name as any, and if you like it, that's what's important." _

Her first conversation with him. She'd never forget it, and now she wondered if he felt the same. She sighed, it was such a silly thing, and now he was so different. So different. That boy, that Erik, had grown up into such a different thing than the girl she'd been had hoped.

Madame Giry blew out her candles and lay on her bed, letting the memory fade away with the light.


	7. Chapter 6

**Normal=Present**

_**Italics=Flashback**_

Two weeks later, Antoinette was making preparations to visit Raoul and Christine—the wedding was over a week away, but they had requested not only her attendance to the actual event, but the company of both the Madame and Meg Giry a few days prior. Christine had also requested that Meg be her Maid of Honor, if possible. When Antoinette told her daughter, she lit up like a fresh candle.

"It will be so _wonderful_ to see her again, to be able to talk like we used to…I think perhaps when she marries she will have little time for her old friends…I don't think she'll want the bad memories that will come along with the good."

Meg's face grew darker with that last sentence, and although the look she gave her mother asked for her words to be negated, Antoinette could only hug her, and offer the most optimistic reassurance she could think of.

"Christine is stronger and smarter than many of us have given her credit for, Meg. We can't try and predict her actions…now let us talk of it no more until we leave on Saturday."

It was Tuesday morning, early enough that the birds had only just started their morning song, and the smell of baking bread drifted through the open window that looked out onto the street. It had been two weeks since He'd dined with them, and neither Antoinette nor Meg had seen him since. Every night Antoinette would hear noises coming from the attic, but she wasn't sure if it was her imagination or reality. She refused to let it haunt her. Most of the time, that refusal was effective.

"Meg, go to the bakery and grab whatever loaf is freshest," She ordered, "While you're out check to see what it would cost us to rent a buggy and driver for a trip..." She drifted off, Meg would understand.

The petite blonde nodded, and took the small purse her mother was holding out, "I'll be back within the hour," She smiled as she walked out the door.

Antoinette's own face was graced with a small smile as she watched her daughter—now her only light in her world—move with such youthful optimism. Her daughter had the best of both traits, she mused. She had her father's happy attitude and if she paused long enough to think, she really did have Antoinette's good sense. Her biggest problem wasn't even her impulsiveness; it was that terrible, unquenchable curiosity that had plagued her since she was born.

The thought sparked the smile on Antoinette's face, and it broadened into something much more genuine, before the Madame shook it off with a sigh. She'd applied as Ballet Mistress to the only other school in the area, and was still waiting to hear back. That left her with little but a few house-chores and her own thoughts.

Antoinette knew if her daughter were placed in the position Antoinette had been in as a ballet girl…she would have taken the same action. Perhaps that was why she was so understanding of her mother's odd relationship—not because she was her daughter, but because Meg understood the real _why_ of the whole tangled, emotional mess of an equation.

***

Sometime in the middle of Wednesday night or perhaps very early Thursday morning, a peculiar scraping sound jerked Antoinette into wakefulness. She flew into a sitting position, her hand flying to her chest reflexively. There was nothing—no one—in her room. Her window was closed, the curtains still. Her door was shut, everything exactly as it had been when she slumbered. Deciding it had been her own superstition, Antoinette lay back down.

Thursday morning, Antoinette's face went a plastery shade of grey as she tied her robe around her dressing gown and prepared to go make breakfast—she and Meg traded off days, and today was Meg's day, but Antoinette doubted her daughter had woken this early, and she was hungry. Hanging from the top of the mirror above her dresser, falling down in a shimmering cascade of deep and light red was a silk-and-velvet dress. Although the cloth was the exact same as the one in Madame Babin's shop, the make of the dress seemed finer than any of the examples the woman had had in her shop.

Antoinette walked towards the regal dress, unable to make any sort of sound, not even a gasp. When she reached it, she extended her arm and brushed the fabric softly. As it moved with her touch, something near the top of it came loose and fell at her feet, at last startling a gasp from her.

She bent and picked up the letter, and the flower that had fallen along with it. The note simply said

_Compensation._

The single word, unsigned, was written in bold letters that were, for the Phantom, rather plain. The flower, which she hadn't done more than glance at, was not a rose as she had first assumed. She peered at it more closely, and when she realized what it was, her breath froze in her lungs again.

"_Well, what do you think?" Antoinette twirled again in front of Erik, showing off her new costume. She still couldn't believe she'd gotten a lead dance part. Finally, after all this time. She slowed her twirls, however, when she saw Erik's face._

"What's wrong?" She asked him. He was frowning severely at her, a strong expression for his young, scarred face.

_It had taken him a year before he was comfortable with leaving his sack—at this point his mask—off around her. She suspected even now she was more comfortable with his face than he was, and he left it off only because he didn't really realize he didn't have it on._

It had taken the full five years she'd known him for him to accept casual touch, both giving and receiving, and habit made Antoinette stand pin-straight and still as he walked up to her and put one hand on her waist, pulling up and bunching some of the fabric before letting it down again and circling her.  


"_It's not cinched enough at the waist, and the neckline is crooked. And the trimming isn't the right shade. What kind of idiot is making your costumes anyway?" He asked her critically. _

_Slightly hurt, Antoinette folded her arms and pulled away from him, "It's not quite finished yet, but I wanted to show you while I could. I thought you'd care." She sniffed._

_Suddenly, his frown changed into a smile, it was such a rare expression that Antoinette immediately smiled back, wanting to do whatever she could to keep that expression on his face, even if he was being cruel._

"I didn't mean to upset you, 'Nette." She'd told him how much she despised the nickname "Annie" early on, and he had promptly decided to start calling her "net", which Antoinette sometimes thought was worse, but she had to admit that his argument made some sense—He'd chosen a simple name, so it would only be fair for her to have such an easy one as well.

_Erik continued, "It's only, I know how much this means to you, so it's important to me too. I'm sure it'll look better once it's finished…still." He gave the dress one last glance, and then abruptly turned and walked away from her, calling over his shoulder, "Wait just one more moment, please, I have something I want to give you." He disappeared around some tunnel's curve._

_When he returned a good five to ten minutes later, he was wearing the clothe mask he'd fashioned recently. It fell over the top of his head like a hat, and the front part worked almost like a skin-tight veil, with eye-holes cut and the edges sewn so that he could see out of it clearly. It wasn't as bad as the sack he'd been wearing when Antoinette had first seen him…but it still lended an element of the ridiculous to him, and she wished he'd just leave it off. Her gaze drifted off his face when he handed something to her._

"_Happy Birthday," He said the phrase awkwardly, but there was a note of cheerfulness in his tone that made Antoinette want to giggle. She was still puzzled, however._

"_I didn't say anything to you, how did you know it was my birthday?" She questioned._

"_Well, first of all, you've told me before, and I vaguely remembered the date this year, so I kept my ears open. Your ballet friends talk and giggle too much." He shoved the thing in his hands more forcefully at her, and at last Antoinette took it._

_It was a lovely green glass vase with ferns and a single bloom in it. The flower was the most beautiful white-pink bloom, the petals heavy and glowing._

"_Oh," She murmured, tracing the petals with her finger gently, "What is it?"_

"_It's a water lily." He said, his tone was even, but just barely, "I…I did some reading, because I wanted to show you how grateful I am for the things you've done for me. A water lily means 'purity of heart'. It just seemed appropriate…I don't know anyone that would've done what you did just because of empathy." He paused, watching her for a moment, his expression hidden by the hat-mask, before he cleared his throat and continued, "The ferns…well, they are easy to get—and that flower wasn't, to let you know—they mean shelter. Not just because you sheltered me…I'll always keep you somewhere in my heart. I know it." _

_It sounded as if he were trying to reassure himself as much as her…it was so strange. _

"_I'll _never_ forget you, ever." Impulsively, he removed the mask, and Antoinette watched him intensely, something suddenly striking her as off. Everything about this scene seemed so unlike him. When he reached out to take her hand, she was positively frightened. _

"_I don't know—" He broke off whatever he was about to say, and just held her hand for a moment before he continued, "I'm not…_whole_, 'Nette." He held up his other hand to stop the words about to fly from her open mouth._

"_I don't mean my face…not just my face. Inside me, there's something that's just not there. And you've always helped me make up for it…but you're not always going to be my friend like you are now. You've got too much to do." He released her hand suddenly, and turned his back to her. _

"_I'm sure I'll always have time to visit you, though." Her voice was bewildered, forlorn. She knew, hearing herself, that she sounded much younger than she actually was. He had a way of making her feel that way, for all that he was a few years younger than herself._

_She took a step towards him._

"_Don't" The word cracked through the dank chamber around them, making Antoinette jump and freeze in place._

"_Please, just take the flower and…" He paused, breathed in a ragged breath, and donned the mask once more, before he turned to her, "I'll watch you tomorrow evening. Don't doubt that." And he walked away._

_Breathing shallowly, Antoinette made her way back up into the Opera House, her normally light feet feeling heavy and clumsy as she tried to figure out just what was happening to the person that she cared most about in the world. _

The flower that had been included with the note was the most beautiful white-pink bloom, the petals heavy and glowing. Antoinette stared at it for a long, long moment, before she set it on her dresser, and walked out of her room, suddenly feeling as if she couldn't breathe. She traced the wall with her hands as she walked along, unsure if her legs would hold her. She walked out of the house into the very small front yard, and then into the street. She didn't know where she was going. She just knew she needed to get out of her house for a few moments at least.

**Well, this was an interesting chapter…and the dress and flower aren't quite such a romantic gesture as you might believe…Erik has his own desires still, and he's still determined to make people do his bidding. Even Antoinette. Well, review, tell me how you liked it! (I wrote this exhausted after being up 24 hours, so probably not my best chapter ever).**


	8. Chapter 7

**Hello! It's been a long while, but I think I'm back in the groove! This chapter may be a little off-kilter, as it's been so long since I've written. Please read and review anyways, but perhaps be slightly forgiving. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Saturday morning came quickly, and Antoinette and Meg, clad in respectable travelling gowns, rose just before the sun to load the carriage with the supplies they would need for their visit to Christine and Raoul's. The dress that had mysteriously appeared in Antoinette's room was securely packed in the same sturdy oak chest as Meg's dress for the wedding, along with the few other valuables they were bringing along.

"Don't speak in the morning, Meg." Antoinette had told her daughter the night before. "I don't know how often he is really listening, or even present. But it is far, far better to be overly cautious than to be sorry that you weren't."

"Of course." Meg had nodded.

She'd remembered this morning quite well, greeting her mother with a simple, "Good morning!" Although her mother could clearly see the excitement brimming within her, showing through the gleam in her eyes and the bounce in her step. Antoinette herself was feeling cheerful this morning, although a bit frightened that there would be some sort of unplanned interruption.

Very little time passed before the last of their packages was secured, and it was time for the two women to enter the carriage themselves. While Meg waited in the carriage, Antoinette made one last round throughout her small home, checking to make sure all was secure, and scrawling a quick note that she left on the table.

_**On a trip with Meg. Will return late next week. A.G.**_

She wasn't sure why she left the note. She suspected it would do very little good—she couldn't see why he would care if they were gone, and he probably knew they were leaving. It wasn't an easy thing to hide. Still, it soothed at least the edges of the fretful ball inside her chest, and with a deep, calming breath she turned her back on the house, shut the door behind her, and joined her daughter.

A day and a half later, Antoinette was greeted with the sight of a stunning face framed by graceful, curling brown hair. "Christine Daae." She murmured. The smile on the girl's face was far brighter than it had been the last time she'd seen the young star.

"Madame Giry," The singer's voice was warm, with only a very slight hint of breathlessness betraying her excitement.

Meg had no reservations, and leapt from the carriage and grasped her friend's hands in her own, speaking before Antoinette could reply to Christine's greeting.

"Christine! How are you? Oh, it has been forever, has it not? There is so much I wish to share with you, and so much I want to hear." For a moment the girl's exchanged giddy smiles, the two ballet-girls from the past, having a special friendship and sisterhood appearing for a moment.

"Madame Giry! Ms. Marguerite." A masculine voice broke the moment. Raoul descended the steps of the mansion-like home that the carriage had brought the Giry's to.

"He got his hair cut!" Meg exclaimed, a bit too loudly and happily. Raoul's eyes paused on her for a moment, a small crease appearing on his brow. Christine's hand rose to cover her mouth, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Antoinette sighed silently, then stepped forward into the silence, nodding her head at the vicomte. "Monsieur. It is good to see you. And lovely to see you, my dear." She added as she returned her gaze to Christine.

"Please, come in." Christine said, and began walking towards the house, turning her head back to talk with her two visitors. "I can give you a tour, the home is lovely. I can't believe I'll be mistress of it in just a few days…I'm so happy." She shared a lingering, fervent look with her beloved. They both did seem truly happy, Antoinette noted. She knew there were still many shadows lingering beneath the surface of their lives, but she believed that if Christine and Raoul held tight to one another, they could make it through all the stronger for their trials.

* * *

Christine, Raoul, and Meg were at the table playing a game when Madame Giry stepped outside to look for her hair pin. She'd discovered it had fallen from her hair some hours before, and had been retracing her steps searching for the beaded pin. It was dusk, and the darkness made it hard to see the ground clearly. She rounded the corner of the drive—perhaps it had somehow fallen through the window as the carriage had pulled in earlier—and stopped suddenly. The carriage—a rental that had been only for a one-way trip—was pulled to the side of the road. Frowning, Antoinette approached it, calling out as she did so.

"Is someone there?" She demanded. It was highly inappropriate for a carriage driver to make use of the Vicomte's grounds as a sleeping place without acquiring permission.

"What?" A voice spoke up from inside the carriage, foggy with sleep. The carriage door opened and the driver's head popped out. "Say, it can't be dark already!" Antoinette heard him mutter.

"Indeed it is. Are you troubled by something?" She asked him, hinting with her tone that if he wasn't, he had better be moving on.

"Did the other carriage pass me by without my noticing it?" He asked her, scratching his head in puzzlement.

"What?" Antoinette asked, suddenly confused. "You must be mistaken, we had no other carriage." Perhaps he was mad, or slow.

"Not you specifically, the….the gentleman you were travelling with."

Her blood turned to ice. It wasn't possible. It wasn't something he'd do…was it?

She knew, he would do anything.

"The gentleman who was travelling with us—did he tell you that he was part of our party?"

"Yes, Madame."

"I see…what did he tell you? You must tell me specifically, it's important." The words came out in a hiss.

The driver's brows rose, and he spoke defensively. "See here, he barely said anything. Just spoke in a voice all muffled by his hood so that I could barely hear the words. Said he was to take a carriage following you, and to make sure we stayed well behind you so that the carriage didn't get caught in your dust. That's why we didn't have the other carriage pulled out when you left. But they still should have arrived by now."

But they—he—hadn't. And Antoinette knew that was no accident.


	9. Chapter 8

The day of Christine's wedding dawned, and Antoinette had yet to make any mention of their mysterious follower to her companions. How could she? If one watched Christine closely it was plain that she was frightened enough as it was. Haunted enough by shadows thought to be passed. Brought once more to present, Antoinette wasn't certain the young woman's nerves would hold.

"What a mess. What a _bloody _mess."

She kept the words muttered, not wanting those around her to hear. The madam had been given the charge of overseeing the finishing touches on decorations, delicacies and the other fine details that must be perfected in the wee hours before the bride tread the aisle. Meg was of course helping her friend prepare.

Antoinette was just about to move from the front yard into the receiving room when a flash of color clashed the corner of her vision. A color she was certain did _not_ belong in any of the flower arrangements she'd ordered.

"What is that?" She demanded, her voice harsh enough to hiss.

The youth holding the object responsible for her ire froze.

"These'd be th-the flowers, madam." He stammered.

"_Roses_?" Antoinette questioned. "_Red _roses? I assure you boy the only time roses were mentioned in preparation for this wedding was the insurance that they would_ not_ be present!"

She searched the offensive bouquet for evidence this was anything more than a florist's mistake. Black ribbon, a note…anything.

"Take them away at once." She dismissed the lad and strode away—not into the receiving room but farther into the grounds. A vague restlessness pulled at her—anxiety, fear, irritation all bundled up so that her body felt as though it were stretched like a string on a violin.

"You are done here—by your own admission. Your spectre days finished. Haunt me if you must—if you like—I of all people at least deserve it. " Her voice was raised, defiant in its accusation. "Monsieur Phantom, Opera Ghost—_I know your name_." Though she was shouting, her last sentence dropped sharply to a whisper.

Abruptly she stopped, putting her hands to her face. What was it she was doing, shouting to the air like a lunatic. This wasn't an opera house filled with darkness. It was a field with scattered trees full of sunlight, shadows barely dappling the ground. Was it this final happening that would finally throw her into insanity? She'd—she' d be damned if it was.

Her reverie was interrupted by a light, masculine voice.

"Madame Giry? Madame, are you all right?"

She removed her hands from her face to see none other than the groom to be standing a few feet away, a questioning expression on his face.

"I am fine, Monsieur. Tis nothing but—but…" She grasped silently for some placating phrase.

"What is wrong?" His voice was sharper this time. Why the devil had ever told him her own, private knowledge in the first place.

"It's just my daughter. She gets herself into enough trouble when I can keep my eye on her. Here, its impossible to even know where she is."

"She isn't with Christine?"

"I…I hadn't thought of that monsieur. Thank you, I will go look for her there."

Praying the vicomte would leave it at that Antoinette strode quickly in the direction she had come. Less than a quarter of an hour later she was sitting down calmly with Meg and Christine, smiling and listening to their inane chatter as she tried to drown out her macabre thoughts in the closer reality of the present.

* * *

Incredibly, the wedding progressed without a single hitch worth commenting upon. Perhaps the priest was a bit dour, the bride a bit pale-faced, and the cake a bit dry—but of all the things Antoinette knew could have gone wrong, the actual occurrence seemed a paradise by comparison.

And there wasn't a single incidence of an unwanted appearance by a rose. Nearly every other flower that came in shades of white and pink was strewn from the gate, down the aisle, to the very top of the roof—but no roses.

Perhaps that was why, after the joyous couple had left for their honeymoon, she let out a decidedly shrill gasp as she shut the door to her temporary room and turned to discover she was not alone. Her hands reflexively flew in front of her—not quite at the level of her eyes but leaning more in that direction than not. Her shock, and the icy fear still rippling across her skin kept her silent as she stared at him.

"The roses were not my doing."

His first statement initially caught her at a loss until her sense caught up and put it in perspective.

"Of—of course." She breathed.

"I have given up, Madame, rest assured. I have learned what I cannot be, what I cannot have."

His voice sounded strange, and Antoinette realized the huskiness in it was from tears. She couldn't bring herself to move, and yet a small part of her still felt compassion for the plight of the man before her. It was a small part though—the rest of her drew up, preparing to weather whatever blow he was about to deliver.

He stared at her silently for long moments and she watched the emotions raging within his eyes. So plain to see, and so poignant—always underlain with that desperation that arose with proximity to Christine. She found herself unable to drop the locked stare, and it wasn't until the phantom lifted a hand to his masked face that realized she'd been holding her breath and had let her hands drop. She moved them now to finally push herself away from the door.

"What is it you want, Erik?" Her voice was weary now. She was weary of this continued haunting, exhausted from the fear—from the thrill—that he lurked behind every door and circumstance.

It was his turn to inhale sharply. "Do not speak that name."

"Why? It belongs to you." She refused to let the return of the ice to his tone cow her.

"You will regret it."

"Will I? Why? Did you bring a rope? I suppose you could make do with the drapes." She snapped back.

She stood at the window—not closed as she had left it, but open. Something she should have noticed the moment she opened her door, Antoinette noted sheepishly.

"You're returning to your home tomorrow morning—departing at 9 o clock I believe. My carriage will be following yours—I trust you'll make the appropriate accommodations with your driver. "

She moved away from the window, unsure how to respond. She didn't know exactly what he meant. "You will be travelling—stopping—with us, then?" She questioned.

There was, of course, no one to answer.


End file.
